


Algor Mortis

by kastchei



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Corpse Desecration, F/M, Guro, Introspection, Missing Scene, Necrophilia, Ultimate Despair (Dangan Ronpa)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26641363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kastchei/pseuds/kastchei
Summary: Izuru Kamukura didn't salvage the body. But he was the first to go to it.
Relationships: Enoshima Junko/Kamukura Izuru
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Algor Mortis

He had her contribution in the inner pocket of his jacket. He could feel it against his chest.

But not in a sentimental way, of course. Just that he was conscious of it.

It had been hers, and now it was his, his to use when came the time. Junko hadn't told him what it contained, only that it was important, that it had to be plugged into a computer in the event of her death.

An event which had happened.

She was dead. 

The corpse was flesh and skin and bone. Clothes and blood in parts. Lifeless entirely. Every part of what had been Junko Enoshima lay in one unnatural shape on the floor before Kamukura now. Every part, of course, except her self.

This disarray of limbs on the floor was no longer Junko. It resembled her, however distantly, but the Junko he had known no longer resided within it. Kamukura felt zero sentiments toward the body. It had been Junko's, but indeed it was not _her_.

The corpse was not Junko because the corpse was the one thing Kamukura knew Junko could never be. Unmoving and breathless and lifeless as it was, the corpse was boring. Izuru Kamukura could grapple with many ideas, he had been designed for that purpose, but the idea that Junko could become boring... this idea, he could not entertain.

He turned to leave.

He was at the doorway when he stopped and turned back. 

She could not be boring. It was an unpleasant thought. 

It disturbed him.

He lowered his hand from the frame of the door, and stepped back to where the body lay. On one knee, he knelt by the side of the body, not minding the congealed blood on the floor.

The body was a mess in the center of the splattered blood, more mutilated than the corpses he had seen previously. Hatred seared his eyes as he stared down at the corpse before him now. It looked so much like her. And yet...

He leaned over it, and his long hair fell across the body's bloodied front. He was growing very hot. Either that, or he had never realized how hot he naturally was until he reached forward and touched the body on the side of its face, which was chilled by algor mortis. The body's lips were shut. But its eyelids were not, and the corpse would have been staring at him had both its eyes not burst from the skull in the moment of death. 

As it was, two hollow sockets gaped up at him. If the corpse remained here in the school, as it would - it had no reason to leave - then these open sockets would soon invite into the body a host of insects, and parasites, and slowly from the inside out the corpse would be eaten by the things that came to crawl through it.

In time, this body would undergo each degenerative stage of decomposition. And then it would slough to nothing, as all human bodies ultimately did. 

It was so predictable.

...So boring.

A certain thought came to Kamukura, and he darkened.

He had to stop thinking. He had to, for these thoughts were not...

He almost laughed at himself. As if he could stop thinking. He was designed for that purpose. He was supposed to think, and to think many and varied thoughts, on all topics.

But he had stopped thinking such thoughts a long time ago.

Now his thoughts were of Junko Enoshima. Whether he wanted to think about her or not was irrelevant. She was all he could think about. And she would always be the subject of all his thoughts — such was the nature of her hold on him. 

She was no more, she was dead, and yet she was still using him, even now... She was nowhere to be found in the body which lay distorted beneath him, and yet, touching it as he was now, he could not help but reflect, think, _feel_...

He swallowed. He told himself to stop, nothing would come of this.

What was the use in touching the body's face, the neck, combing his fingers through her hair, which had already begun to loosen from the skull? What was the use in this?

She was dead. She was nil.

Izuru's eyes flickered in the darkness. The words that she once whispered into his ear now echoed in his head as he passed his fingers over her shut lips. His breathing was growing heavy. Why was he reacting to her— to the corpse this way? Junko Enoshima was dead and nil. This corpse had nothing to do with her, he told himself. So he told himself.

So he continued telling himself as he went on both knees and passed his hands down her neck and shivered. The death chill was cold across her entire body. He was so hot.

She had reached her fingers so deeply into his mind, but he— he had never come close to her in turn. Certainly he had never come so close as to be able to touch her. Excitement flitted across his arms as he slipped his hands into her collar and parted it. She was ice-cold, her muscles rigid beneath her skin. Prior to this moment, he'd never thought about touching her, so he had never considered how soft or firm she might feel beneath his fingertips. He hadn't expected it. In fact, all of this was unexpected. It was exciting.

Her shirts, torn as they were, came apart with ease at his touch, black and white splitting open and both cups of the bra spilling aside to reveal her chest. Izuru breathed in through his nose, eyes shutting. His hands slid along her ribcage, his fingers counting each rib, tracing the ridges through her skin.

Out of curiosity, he pressed his hands against Junko's breasts, thumbs brushing the nipples, circling them. It was interesting at first, but once the sensation had stagnated enough for him to become bored of it, he took his hands away and moved elsewhere.

So cold was her hand as Izuru lifted it with both his own to his face. Cracked and damaged fingernails caught the dark strands that cut his face into two halves. His lashes dragged along her fingers as he blinked. He sighed into her palm. Then he let her thumb fall into his mouth, on his bottom row of teeth. He closed his mouth slowly around her thumb, but for all his searing body temperature, he was nothing but chilled when she didn't respond.

He spat out her thumb and threw her hand aside. Wetting his lips, he tasted blood, before shutting his mouth and clenching his teeth and breathing sharply in through his nose. The room reeked of rusted iron, and when he raised his arms to throw his hair from his face, he could smell sweat, as well. 

He touched her legs, the leather of her boots, the red laces which wound tightly up the front of her calves like stitches. He let her kneecap roll around beneath his fingers. Before long, his sweat was breaking out across his forehead, making his hair cling to his face. 

Junko's tie, black and white and embroidered in red, lay along her front, the length of it falling between her legs. Waving it aside, Izuru reached beneath her skirt to pull away her underwear. Unlike the other articles of clothing on her body, this one had escaped the impact of death undamaged. As he rubbed the underwear between his fingers and thumb, he felt something mesh-like within the layers of fabric.

He pulled it all the way down her legs, lifted it from her feet, and threw it away. His hands moved to his belt.

Izuru was trembling as he undid the buttons of his fly. His entire body was virile with the thrill of being so close to doing something that— being about to do something that he had never done before, that he had never considered doing — until now. It would help stave boredom away a little while longer, which he needed, he had become so bored of simply touching... That was how he rationalized it, at least. As if you need to rationalize it, he could almost hear Junko say. You're Ultimate Despair. You don't rationalize.

Looking at her now, Izuru took hold of Junko's thigh and set it by his hip, then dragged her closer to him. The pleats of her skirt fanned open as he set her other leg in place on his opposite side. He adjusted her, so that her body lay along his kneeling legs, sloping down to the blood-stained floor. Her hair was splayed in shredded tangles on either side of her head.

Gripping her hip with one hand, he lowered the waistband of his underwear with the other. He was staring at her and panting as he exposed himself to the cold, metallic air of the room. His eyes were wide and his lips were wet and barely parted. Then he lowered his gaze, looked down at himself as both his hands raised Junko by the hips and guided her on to his length. 

The breath he drew in was long and rasping and tight, airy. He was blinking rapidly, he kept pulling on Junko’s body. When he could not bring her any closer to him, he sighed, and stilled, and enjoyed the sensation of being inside her before he became bored of it. Once he did, he rocked her slightly against his hips. He grimaced. Pulling himself out for a moment, he spat in to one hand and rubbed his saliva over himself. This done, he returned his hand to her waist and let himself enter her again. And again.

It was barely moments before this started to feel physically enjoyable, and before long his eyes were rolling back in his skull and his voice was making sounds which excited him; he had never known he could sound like this. Junko burned like raw ice against his hot and flushed body, and wetting his lips he tightened his hold on her and rose from his heels, leaning farther over Junko as he thrust with more urgency into her. 

Her head, attached as it was to a broken neck, tilted at an unnatural angle as his hands, covered in sweat, slipped from her waist to her thighs. His dark hair fell like the shroud of death over both their bodies and he began groaning, creasing his brows, slowing every now and then so as to smooth more saliva on to his length. Junko became very dry very quickly. 

Izuru was gritting his teeth, until his mouth fell open and her name was being strangled from his throat, Junko, Junko, Enoshima, Enoshima, _Enoshima_. He quickly learned that it felt even better if he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, stopping his breaths, denying himself air. When finally he came, he was gasping and thought that he might die.

Izuru hardly felt himself slipping out, and unconsciously removed the corpse from his body. After setting the corpse back on the floor, he rose to his feet and tucked himself back in to his pants, fastening his fly and belt once more. Wet fabric was clinging to his skin and his hair stuck to all the sides of his face and head. He felt disgusting, or disgusted, and he wasn't sure which, but he could think about it later. Once he returned to his full height, he smoothed down the front of his jacket and adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. 

He stared down at the corpse. Rigor mortis would take its hold within hours, and once the world received news of Junko’s death, others might come and attempt to salvage the body, or whatever remained of it by then.

But whatever happened to the body once Kamukura left the room was none of his concern. He had more urgent matters to attend to.


End file.
